


drowning in love

by Areiton



Category: Captain America (Movies), Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark Friendship, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, M/M, Miscommunication, Mutual Pining, Pining, Platonic Relationships, Platonic Soulmates, Soulmate-Identifying Marks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-20
Updated: 2020-08-20
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:47:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26013631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Areiton/pseuds/Areiton
Summary: This is the thing: soulmates trump wedding vows and military orders, trump laws of man and god, have ended wars and marriages and toppled kingdoms. All in the name of cosmic love.This is the thing: not all soulmates love each other.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes & Steve Rogers, James "Rhodey" Rhodes & Tony Stark, Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 285





	drowning in love

The thing is that he doesn't keep his words hidden. They're delicate chicken scratch that he used to trace when Howard left his bruises and when Maria couldn't bother to be around him. 

They were a promise, that one day, someone would be glad of him. 

And then Rhodey spilled into his dorm room, took one look at Tony, sitting cross-legged on the floor and unassembling a lamp and he'd  _ grinned _ , wide and white and pleased. 

_ "Oh good, you're here."  _

Tony's eyes had gone wide and he'd dropped the lamp and blurted,  _ "It's you, platypus, holy shit."  _

And that wide pleased grin went  _ wider.  _

*~* 

He doesn't hide it. 

He's got the best fucking soulmate in the world, his platypus, and he's never wanted to hide that. 

But when the giant blonde guy smiling at him while he orders coffee catches sight of his words, all watercolor splashed blues and red, his face goes still and sad and his smiles stop. 

Tony doesn't say anything else, just keeps that smile firmly in place, shoves a tip in the jar and takes his coffee as he retreats. 

*~* 

Rhodey loops an arm around his shoulder, words brushing Tony's arm and tingling. "You gonna come with us tonight?" 

He flicks a look at them--Rhodey in his jeans and tight tshirt and that smile that he only gives Tony, his words a brilliant splash of color. Carol with her long hair blonde and curling, stunning in that tiny red number, her words a curling lick of black. 

"No, I'm gonna study, I think," he says, smiling. 

Rhodey's grin dims, just a little and he steps closer. "You ok, genius?" 

"I'm  _ fine _ , platypus. Go. Have fun." 

He hesitates, but let's Carol drag him away. 

*~*

This is the thing: words are black, until you meet your soulmate, and white if they die. 

Most parents register a word or phrase, something unusual or distinct, with the ISMD--but Tony had never registered platypus, and Rhodey had never bothered at all. 

This is the thing: soulmates trump wedding vows and military orders, trump laws of man and god, have ended wars and marriages and toppled kingdoms. All in the name of cosmic love. 

This is the thing: not all soulmates love each other. 

*~* 

The blonde watches him. His nametag says Steve, and he’s tall, with these impossible shoulders and tiny fucking waist, giant hands that are so careful when he’s working the levers and machine, deftly creating art in the top of Tony’s drink. 

He doodles, too, when the coffeeshop empties out and it’s just the two of them, him behind his counter and Tony behind his tablet, a million lines of code and four watercolor words between them. 

Because Tony--he knows what those heavy-lidded, guilty stares mean. 

He knows that Steve wants him. 

But those heavy-lidded guilty stares always slide from his ass or his lips, from his eyes and his long fingers--to the words on his arm that he’s never, not once, hidden. 

And they drop away. 

*~* 

“What are you drawing today?” he asks, while Steve presses a panini for him and he inhales the first delicious sip of coffee. 

It burns in the best possible way, chases the chill of Howard’s disapproval and Boston in January away. 

Steve blinks at him and Tony smiles. “I’ve been in here every other day for over a semester. You think I didn’t notice you sketching?” 

Steve tips his head, studying Tony. His words are still covered by the long sleeves of Rhodey’s sweatshirt, and maybe--maybe that’s why. 

Steve slides the sketch pad across the counter, and Tony looks at it. 

It’s--his table, an almost watercolor sketch, the blacks and greys blending with the whites in a way that immediately calls to mind the watercolor splash on his arm. 

But it’s  _ his _ table, his tablet discarded and long fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee, the shape of his shirt in the background. 

Tony looks up at him, and Steve is staring back,bright-eyed and hungry and his heart does this thing--flips and twists--

The door swings open, and he hears, clear as day, “Oh good, you’re here.” 

The color drains outta Steve’s face and he shuffles back, looking sick, and Tony huffs, twisting to look at Rhodey. “Oh my god, platypus.” 

Rhodey’s grin is sharp and pleased. 

*~* 

He loves Rhodey. And Rhodey loves him, this deep and abiding sort of love that settles him when he feels like he’s shaking apart, that feels like home when nothing in his life has ever felt like home. 

But he’s not in love with Rhodey. 

He thinks it’d be easier, sometimes, if he was. If they could be that, too, 

They aren’t. They tried, once-- _ Tony _ tried, crawled into Rhodey’s bed and pressed a wet drunk kiss to his lips and Rhodey had sighed and wrestled him down, forced him to sleep. 

He was gentle, when he explained to Tony that they were never gonna be more than this. More than friends, brothers,  _ soulmates _ . 

And it didn’t sting, the way he thought it would. It was  _ right _ , settled next to that  _ home _ and  _ safe _ and  _ loved _ feeling that Rhodey always gave him. 

Still. 

In a world that saw soulmarks and equaled up to epic  _ love-- _ it was damn complicated. 

*~* 

“Your soulmate,” Steve says, and his words are stiff. Almost angry. 

It’s the first time Steve’s talked to him in weeks--even the glances, all sweet and longing and conflicted--had slowed. 

Tony blinks at him. 

“You should talk to him.” 

He frowns. “Why--did something happen?” 

“Just--this--talk to him,” Steve almost begs, and drops a chocolate croissant on the table before stalking back to his counter. 

Panic clawing at him, Tony bolts for home. 

*~* 

They wore them, the words that marked each other, like badges of honor. 

Tony didn’t get it, really, why Rhodey never complained about being tied to  _ Tony _ . He just smiled and shook his head and once, when Rhodey dragged Tony home--he understood, just a little bit. 

Because Rhodey was the middle child in a family of five, the one who was peacemaker and forgotten, the son that everyone expected to succeed and no one celebrated when he did. He was loved,  _ deeply _ , the kind of love so deep and abiding it didn’t need to be stated. 

But he wasn’t  _ seen _ , really. 

Not until Tony stared at him, bright eyes fixed on him like he was the only star in the sky. 

*~*

Tony swings into the cafe, and the dark haired burly guy is behind the counter. 

“I need to talk to Steve,” Tony says, abruptly. 

“Stevie ain’t here.” 

“ _ That _ is very clear. I’ll just sit here and wait for him.” 

The man snorts, and digs in his pocket for his phone. “Your boy is here. No, I don’t think he’s gonna move. Just get your ass down here, man.”

He huffs, and pockets the phone. Eyes Tony sharp and serious. “You better not hurt him.” 

*~*

They never said--not publicly--what kind of bond they shared. 

It was no one’s business but their own. They were close, Rhodey falling into Tony’s space and Tony curling into Rhodey’s lap, easy affection and teasing nicknames, and people made their own assumptions. 

They never cared. 

*~* 

Steve’s gaze immediately tracked to the big guy behind the counter, and Tony, tucked into his corner, watched, the way they communicated without a word, the tension easing in Steve’s shoulders, and the little smirk, cocky and knowing, on the other man’s lips before he pushed off the wall. “Gonna close up early, punk.”

And he  _ knows _ , he knows what that kind of easy intimacy and closeness means, what that word means, heavy hung in the air and easing the tightness in Steve’s eyes. 

“See ya at home, Buck,” Steve says, his gaze finding Tony, and something sure and hot settles in his gut. 

*~*

He’s asked about it, sometimes. He’s never made a secret of his mark, never done anything to keep it tucked away or hidden. He’s asked about it, when it gleams bright and beautiful at the world and his date sways, blonde and beautiful and not  _ his _ . 

But Tony may not  _ hide _ his mark--might flaunt it, because his Rhodey loves him, wants him,  _ needs _ him and there is not a single person in the world better to be loved by--but he’s never once answered questions about the mark. 

He merely smiles, when they shout questions, while Howard stiffens and Tony flirts and slides his way out of the questions. 

Because the words--they were a promise, that one day someone would want him--and he did, Rhodey  _ did _ . They were his armor, the shield between him and a world that only wanted him for what he could give them. 

Rhodey though--Rhodey was  _ his, _ and Tony? He’d always been fiercely jealous and bad at sharing. 

*~* 

“Show me your mark,” Tony demands. 

Steve stared at him, his head tipped curiously as he watches, as Tony pushes out of his corner, and into Steve’s space. 

His mark is brilliant, a splash of blue and red and hues of gold shot through. It’s bare and glaringly evident, the sleeves of his sweatshirt shoved up over his elbows. 

Steve hesitates, and Tony reaches for him. “You watch me. You stare at it, and you stare at me.” 

“You’re wrong about him,” Tony says, and he smiles, fingers running gently over the dark blue band around Steve’s arm. “He’d never hurt me. He’s not-- _ we’re _ not like that.” 

Something bright and hopeful flickers in Steve’s eyes and Tony murmurs, as gentle as a caress. “Show me?” 

Steve sighs, and he strips the band away slowly, his shoulders and jaw stiff. 

His word--just the one, scratched in rough hurried script--is pale. Is white. 

Tony’s stomach drops and Steve shakes his head. “Bucky--when he lost the arm--it went white. He’s--you met him, he’s fine, but--” 

“But you keep it hidden,” Tony says, softly. Steve nods, and Tony licks his lips. “Do you watch mine because you miss your own colors--or because you want my words.” 

“I love my soulmate,” Steve says, soft, fierce. 

“I love Rhodey,” Tony says, and steps closer, a long line of warmth draped across Steve’s chest. “But not all love is romantic, sweetheart.” 

Steve’s eyes go wide, and his hands--his big, broad hands that are so gentle and so capable--close over his hips. 

The kiss is soft, a gentle brush against Tony’s lips that feels like moth wings and a promise as intoxicating as the one written on his arm. 

*~* 

Rhodey is his home, has been since they met and his wrist burned and brightened and warmed. 

Steve--Steve isn’t his home, isn’t written into his soul and skin. 

But he holds Tony in the dark, and his fingers tangle with Tony’s in the bright green spring, and his eyes are soft and warm, when he stares at Tony, when he murmurs promises and praise against Tony’s lips, and fucks him hard. 

Rhodey glares and huffs and threatens Steve, once, when Tony is in the bathroom. Bucky does the same. He’s not terribly surprised--he is a  _ little _ pleased. 

They are very good soulmates after all. 

*~* 

When they marry, years later, their soulmates stand with them, and Steve’s mark is pale white and faded and Tony’s is a riot of watercolor, and they’re sandwiched between the two who loved them first and last and always. 

Tony kisses Steve, a ring burning on his finger, and words burning on his arm, and drowning in love. 


End file.
